


pretty hurts

by thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The perils of loving a game that doesn't love you back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretty hurts

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, ikemen-kun ♥

You are four, and an aunt you will not see again apart from that family reunion pinches your cheek, tells you what a cute little boy you are. You rub your cheek when she turns away, swipe cream from the dessert on the table with your fingertip, tuck yourself away for the rest of the night, far from coos about your complexion or strangers ruffling your hair. 

You are six, and your parents tell you that we're going to fly. Not with our own wings, they explain, but big metal ones, and that you should do your best to pack up your things. You cannot think of anything you might need aside from your toys, especially that basketball you got last year for your birthday. You're getting sort of good at dribbling. 

You are eight, and your tongue is no longer clumsy around those foreign sounds. You still speak Japanese at home, but you like English because people can understand you outside the house. Despite having a rough couple of years, your English grades have improved, and your basketball, too. 

You are ten, and there is another little boy following you around, calling you _aniki._ When you met him he was wide-eyed and shy, wandering the streets while not seeming lost, exactly, but like he had nowhere to go. He reminded you of yourself all those years ago, alone in this strange land where everything and everyone is bigger than you, and you felt protective on the spot. "His name is Taiga," you told your friends, and afterwards he turned to you in the late afternoon, shone a smile at you, "if I had an older brother, I imagine he'd be kind of like you." 

You are twelve, and an actual (former) basketball player has taken you and Taiga under her wing. Vaguely, you are aware that she retired because of her eyesight, but you forget that she has limitations when you watch her play. There is an unseen magnetism between the ball and her hands, an agreement between her and the net for it to swallow all of her shots, one right after the other. Because she's a professional, you reason, but it's more than that. Alex has something you can't buy or acquire, a mysterious prescription bottle labeled 'natural talent.' It's okay that you weren't born with it, you can make up the gap through practice; it is less okay when you start to notice that Taiga _was._

You are fourteen, and there is a pile of love notes in your locker from the girls at school. Everyone you have ever kissed had a habit of staring, with your face so close to theirs, flushing as they touch the mark under your eye. "Jeez, Tatsuya," remarks one of the guys after you interrupt a scuffle, "you hit like a prizefighter, but you really don't look it." Not much has changed in ten years, it seems. 

You are sixteen, and your feet are back on Japanese soil. You hesitate to call it home because you no longer belong here, though that doesn't stop you from trying. To the girls in your class you're that tall, mysterious transfer student, and to the coach of the basketball team you're the guy with the perfect form and the perfect fakes, a secret weapon. You don't lose your composure, despite the time you spend with that taller (better) freshman who always eats and never listens, but that semblance of control threatens to crumble on one afternoon in late July, when you glance across the court and lock eyes with your little brother. Suddenly you're on that empty court again, beating the ground with your fists as the rain beats down on you, howling as Alex looks on, for once without advice to offer— 

_I started playing first, I love basketball more, so why? Why him and not me?_

—and you're wondering what all those people who have ever called you pretty would say, if they could see you now.


End file.
